I Don't Mind A Little Trouble
by latetothpartyhp
Summary: After Lionel's disappearance, the alt-universe Oliver is suspected of murdering him. Fortunately, someone pays a call to help clear his name. Multi-part. Sequel to "Of All the Towns in All the Worlds in All the Alternate Universes..."
1. Chapter 1

As it turned out, Dinah recorded her show, "And Justice For All", in the WGBS building, only a few blocks away, and on occasion, as winter wore on, he would pass her in the sky-ways, crossing Fourth St., getting her shoes shined, in line at Caribou. Sometimes he found himself making excuses to take the elevator down and look for her. Not for the fun of it, certainly; most people who recognized him these days looked a little shocked or sickeningly excited. He had a feeling some of them ran back to their offices to announce the sighting: "_Guess who I just saw! Oliver Queen! How long, you think, before they arrest him?_" That was hard, but expected. He was used to less than universal approbation. For the first time, though, he felt as if there was at least one face in the crowd who supported him. She was the only member of the team based in town; they'd moved Victor to Queen Industries' Silicon Valley facilities, and Andrea he saw only on her infrequent trips in from San Diego or El Paso. That was ok. Dinah was there. He'd wander until he saw her.

For obvious reasons he wasn't able to do that often. More often the passings were arranged. He'd see a tweet on his feed from LadiesWhoLunch mentioning a great deal at PotBelly or Falafel King and he would make his way down, strolling through the lunch crowd until he bumped into her. That day, though, he didn't see her among the bored, rushed data analysts and paralegals and project managers. Or rather, he didn't see her right away.

He saw someone else first.

Someone blonde, and green-eyed, and short but trying to make up for it by wearing three-inch heels. Someone who had walked out on him, without even telling him her name; someone who was walking very calmly now toward the Coronado Avenue walk-way to Lacey's. It was only after that, jerking his head around, that he saw Dinah sipping on a Jamba Juice, smartphone in hand, walking very calmly toward the Avenue of the Prairies crossing on the other side of the building.

Son of a bitch.

He turned, and, calmly as he could, walked toward Coronado.

The woman he tailed didn't bat an eyelash from what he could tell. Not that he could tell. That would require her to turn and look back, which of course she didn't do because that would require her to be aware of him, even, which she wasn't, because she kept marching straight over Coronado, into Lacey's and onto the nearest escalator. With effort he managed to amble along casually, avoiding eye-contact with dozens of strangers and one rather bribe-able alderman. If she wasn't practically running in those damn heels he would have given a nod and a smile to the alderman, who would not have appreciated the attention from an accused patricide, but she was and so he had to focus on the task at hand. He focused deeply, right until she suddenly stopped and he realized she'd led him right into what Nanny Lizzie had called, with the full force of all her old-school Yankee scorn for pretension of any kind, "The Underpants".

This, he thought, was where it could get sticky. Even if no one recognized him, he was still a man in the women's _intimates_ department, which meant that, sooner or later –

"May I help you find something, sir?"

someone was going to try to wait on him.

He smiled his best disarming-yet-professional grin. "Thanks, but it's really more of I'll-know-it-when-I-see-it situation."

"Alright. My name's Krista, and if you do have any questions be sure to let me know." She smiled in what he was sure was her best understanding-but-remember-the-name-if-you-actually-buy-anything grin.

"Will do," he said, and turned scan the racks. Nothing – nothing – nothing. Shit. He would not have put it past her to have thrown Krista his way while she made a break for it – and how ironic was it he knew the damn shop-girl's name but not hers?

He rotated once again, casually, while faking an interest in … maternity bras... _Oh, God_ … when he spotted the back of her blonde head, bobbing right into the fitting rooms. Without looking around – God knew he didn't need any more "assistance" – he wandered straight past tables of something called "bed socks", a wall of pastel flannel pajama pants and a middle-aged woman re-hanging what looked like giant sausage-casings at a little desk, and on into the fitting room.

Before he'd gotten three yards in he heard a middle-aged female voice behind him. "Sir! Sir, I'm sorry, you can't go in there – "

"It's ok!" whispered the voice of Krista, who may or may not have been following him. "That's _Oliver Queen_!" Well, it was good to know tabloid notoriety still counted for something in this town. He looked over his shoulder at Krista and the sausage-casing hanger and winked. Krista, bless her, winked back and Oliver made a note to call his assistant as soon as this was over and have her buy out the "bed socks".

Now there was only the problem of finding the right stall. Despite the staff's willingness to send in any random billionaire who came along, Lacey's, it seemed, like to give their female customers privacy: the doors to each of the fitting rooms ran floor-to-ceiling. That ruled out sneaking peeks underneath to find the right shoes, and knocking wasn't really an option. Either the woman who answered would be happy to see the only man in Metropolis who'd made the covers of both _People_ and _Forbes_ or … she wouldn't. Which meant not only being kicked out of Lacey's but also possible police involvement, which he really did not need in his life at the moment, and a definite firing for Krista.

He clenched his fingers in his hair. Actually, he thought, this had been a pretty dumb idea. He should go. Walk out, give Krista a sheepish grin, and hang out behind some espresso makers in Housewares until his quarry –

"_Hmmmph_."


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:** Allusion to spoilers for _Beacon_ in this chapter. Also, Chloe seems to be turning into her father. Warning for bad humor ahead.

The rational part of his brain swore while the part that operated on instinct whirled his body around. His quarry had opened the door to her stall, second from the end, and was jerking her toward the interior in the universal sign for "This way!"

His rational brain re-asserted itself. "What the hell – "

"_HMMMPH_!"

She jerked her head again. He snapped his mouth shut and stomped to her stall. She grabbed his jacket, he stumbled forward, and they both landed with a soft thud against the back wall. In the moment it took to disentangle himself he thought he smelled oranges and something muskier underneath, but he was too ticked off to think of what.

"At the risk of repeating myself, what the hell – "

"Sshhh!"

"- do you think you're doing?" he finished in a whisper.

"Dinah said you needed some help," she whispered back, "and this seemed as good a place as any. Excellent customer service and very hack-able security feeds too. And – " she smiled broadly, like she'd just come off a roller-coaster or been tickled or had an orgasm, "if anyone saw you come here, they'll just assume you're a little kinky."

He found himself smiling back before he remembered that this had been a really dumb idea. "You realize the cops in this town are begging for an excuse to arrest me."

Her smile fell and she was again all business. "Yeah, I heard. Clark's had Luthorcorp Media fingering you as the chief suspect in Daddy Dearest's disappearance."

"You 'heard'? What, do you have inter-dimensional RSS feeds?"

"Dinah told me."

"So, you have inter-dimensional IM?"

She shrugged. "Her voice carries."

"Cute. You're not going to tell me, are you?" He didn't know why it was important to know that, except, of course, that it was obviously something that affected the team.

She shook her head. "No." Then she smiled again, as if she'd said something funny. "But I can show you." She reached into her bag and pulled out the shiniest chrome thing-he-thought-had-been-destroyed that he'd ever seen.

"Where did you get that? _Your_ Clark told me he was going to get rid of it."

"Then he probably did. This one was lent to me by a friend."

"There's more than one?"

She pursed her lips and shook her head. "_The world is so full of a number of things, I'm sure we should all be happy as_ … Queens," she said.

He didn't know whether to groan or to … groan. "Did you just _pun_?" She raised a brow, which meant, he supposed, that he should back off. "Ok. You've been popping in, meeting up with Dinah, and popping out. I take it that means you know how to drive that thing."

"A toddler could drive this thing. All you really have to do is twist and concentrate on where you want to go."

"And where is it we'll be going? I mean, I assume I'll be going and you didn't pull me into the ladies' fitting room so we could play 'I'll Show You Mine If You Show Me Yours'?"

She gave him a very flat look. "Trust me, you don't have anything I need to see. But you're otherwise correct. As for where we're going, well, they can't press charges against you for murdering a man who's alive and well."

He found himself smiling again. Maybe this hadn't been such a dumb idea. "We're going to get Lionel Luthor."

"Exactly. Hang on."

He grabbed her arms as she placed her other hand on the device. He still couldn't pin-point the musky smell on her, except that it was warm and sweet and hazy. As the silver light bloomed and grew around them he screwed his eyes up tight, breathed her scent in and held on. When his lids grew dark again, he opened them to find they were standing in a hotel room in what, from the view, appeared to be a high level of a building in downtown Metropolis.

The room was empty, but there was an open door leading to a sitting room. Angling her behind him, he walked over and peered out into it.

"You can relax," she told him. "Our contact isn't due for awhile."

The sitting room looked empty, so he moved on to the closet. Empty. "Who's our contact?" He swept past her and poked his head into the bathroom. Shower stall: empty; toilet partition: empty.

He heard a rustling from the bedroom. "We're gonna have to change," she said. "I think this one belongs to you." He walked back out to find her holding out a dark suit on a hanger, covered by a dry-cleaning bag. He took it from her.

"Who's our contact?" he repeated.

"If it doesn't fit – "

"Look, these accidentally-on-purpose meet-ups are fun. A little inconvenient, but I don't mind that so much as you not trusting me. I hung on because I'm insane enough to trust some woman whose name I don't know and follow her into another world or plane of existence or wherever it is we are. It would be nice to know that you returned the favor. You can totally count on me to act surprised later if that's what's needed."

She stared at him as if she'd gotten caught stealing popsicles from the freezer. "Okay," she said after a few seconds. "That's fair. Um. Hm." She sat on the bed. "In this version of reality – my version – Clark Luthor was not adopted by Lionel. He was adopted by a farm family from Smallville. The Kents. Our contact is his mother, Mrs. Kent."

"Martha Kent?"

She nodded.

"Oh." Back in his reality, Kent vs. Queen Land Management Trust was in its fourth year of litigation.

"I thought it might be better if I handled the face time."

"No, I want to know with whom I'm dealing."

She arched her brow at him again. "I need to look a person in the eye," he said. The other brow came up and he sighed. "I'm sure she's..." What? A very nice person in this dimension? From what he could tell she was a very nice person in his dimension, albeit mad as hell at him. "So, uh, she's got info on Lionel?"

Again, she paused before replying, but this time she looked thoughtful. "Not really. The plan is not so much going out and getting Lionel, as it is bringing him here. Martha's going to be the thing that brings him."

He frowned. "How's she going to do that?"

"Martha had some history with Lionel in this time-line."

He didn't bother hiding his disgust.

"Not like that," she continued. "But the Kent farm wasn't that far away from the Luthor mansion, and Lionel was always been interested in Clark. I think, after her husband died, she began a policy of keeping her friends close and her enemies closer. And it helps she went into politics and was appointed Senator, which I assume can only add to her powers of Luthor allure. That's also why we need to change. We need to look like G-men." She held up her hanger. "If anyone stumbles in we're the advance security team."

"That seems a little extreme for a Senator."

"Security's a little tighter for her these days. You can have the bathroom," she said, and pulled her jacket off.


	3. Chapter 3

She was standing and about to unzip her skirt before he realized that by "You can have the bathroom" she meant "You can have the bathroom or you can stay right here and watch me strip, completely oblivious to your presence". Slamming his eyes shut, he turned and smacked his nose into the door frame.

"You okay over there?"

"Fine!" he gritted, and opened his eyes. This was asinine. He was an adult. He was entirely capable of getting to the goddamn bathroom without blushing like a twelve-year-old at the sight of a woman taking her clothes off. Which he was not, he affirmed after giving himself a quick glance in the bathroom mirror. Of course, what kind of woman just sits down and takes her clothes off in front of a man she barely knows? he asked himself. Between the time he was sixteen and the time he'd met Lois the only women who'd undressed in front of him without it leading to sex were dancers in clubs – and even Lois tended to pull on her pajamas in the walk-in if she was too tired.

He leaned against the counter and pulled off his shoes. Maybe she was a lesbian. He thought he could tell, usually, but nobody bats a thousand. It was a possibility. It might explain a few things – except for the way she'd been flirting with him earlier, with that whole _people-will-just-think-you're-kinky_ thing. On the other hand, she'd gotten pretty prim later. The pants for the suit were cut a little more conservatively than he liked, but that was probably the point. Maybe she was bi. Or bi-curious, trying to find herself. There was a shoulder holster under the jacket, side-arm included. How authentic, he thought. Of course, whether she was or not wasn't any of his business. He was engaged and she was going to flit back to her fairy kingdom when this was all over. He pulled on the jacket over the holster. Looking good, except he needed a comb; he was pretty sure his hair wasn't regulation.

He only flinched slightly when she spoke from the door. "I tried to get them to throw in a fake beard, but I guess they didn't have time."

He gave her a wry look through the mirror. "Be grateful. Facial hair is not a good look for me."

She grinned. "Give yourself a few years. You might be grateful for whatever hair you can get." She pulled a small brush, full of thin, golden threads from her bag and handed it to him.

"Yeah, too bad male-pattern baldness is passed down through the X chromosome. Otherwise I could count on long, lustrous curls well into middle-age."

"That sounds frighteningly Freudian and totally unfair to boot. I've seen pictures of your dad."

"Have you?"

"Well, yeah. I mean, I did some research. Saw old newspaper clippings."

"You did? Well that's a little disappointing. I thought you knew everything. But I guess there's really no reason _you_ should have to feel awkward at this little family reunion." He watched her eyes go round and smirked. "Now you know why my eyes are not brown." He continued pulling the brush over his brush over his skull while he watched her. She was staring at a point over his shoulder in complete disbelief.

"That's not possible."

"The media begs to differ."

"You mean the _Inquisitor_?" she said, "That just proves whoever planted the story doesn't have any evidence. If he did he would have gone with a much more reputable source."

"If Clark was smart enough to dig through Lex's records he does, but right now I think he's just enjoying stirring the pot."

That got her, he saw. She was beginning to believe. "This is ... " she reached around and pulled at his chin. He turned at the pressure, staring down hard at her now-incredulous face. Her eyes ran up and down his, from one ear to another, as she shook her head. "But you look exactly like him." He assumed the "him" did not refer to Lionel.

"You said that last time," he said. "Just like him except my eyes are blue. Everyone always told me I was a ringer for my mother's father. Dad liked to say I got my throwing arm from his side, though."

She was shaking her head again, her face crumpled in a way that reminded him of Lois' whenever she was feeling protective. "Oliver..."

He wasn't in the mood to be protected, though; he'd knew who he was, had known since high school. No amount of worried eyes would change that. Strength lay in doing what you needed to do, when the opportunity arose. Of course, sometimes you had to make your opportunities. "That's another thing. Were you ever planning to tell me _your_ name?"

Her eyes and brows widened again. It was almost funny, he thought. Secretive as she was, she had no poker face at all; every thought and feeling she had flickered over her face like a movie on a screen. Right now she was nonplussed. Next, he was certain, she would be irritated. After that he was unsure, but the fun was in the gamble.

Sure enough, her brows drew together and she gave a little sigh. "A little off-topic, don't you think?"

"I don't know. I just told you something pretty personal."

"Wh... " Her eyes shut and she shook her head a little. Exasperation. One step closer to capitulation. "On mission I'm called Watchtower."


	4. Chapter 4

_"On mission I'm called Watchtower."_

That was interesting, he thought. She had a code name, which meant she had a team of her own. It made sense. But it wasn't the answer to the question he had asked. "And when you're not on mission?"

"But we are."

"But you call me by my given name."

"I..." More exasperation. It was cute on her. "Chloe. My name's Chloe."

"Just 'Chloe'? That's a little diva-ish, don't you think?"

"Chloe Sullivan." _Score_. She was giving him a harder look now, closer to real anger, but nothing he couldn't handle. He was on a roll.

"Why do they call you Watchtower?" he asked.

"You ask a lot of questions."

He shrugged. "I have to. Dinah doesn't tell me anything."

"That's for a reason," she said patiently.

A prickle of irritation – the real stuff, the kind usually reserved for whiny bankers and corrupt cops – tightened his jaw. He was a grown man who ran a multi-billion dollar corporation and had single-handedly brought multiple criminals to justice, and they were supposedly on the same side. He repeated that to himself and then told himself to smile. "Well, on our team, we try to match the name to the person. I'm thinking you're more of a Gazoo."

"Gazoo?"

"Like on _The Flintstones_? Appears out of thin air, messes around, and disappears again?"

"That is what you think I do?"

"Well, in my dimension it is."

"Did you …" she paused, as if searching for just the right way to finish that question, then continued: "...fall on your head at some point in your childhood?"

"Hey, I'd call you 'Watchtower' if I thought it was appropriate."

With that, she stomped out of the bathroom.

Okay, so maybe he was being a little obnoxious. But not any more than was necessary. If she wanted to win she was going to work for it.

"It is, not that you would know," she was saying. Following the clunking sounds into the bedroom, he saw her pulling an iPad out of her bag.

"You're right about that." She was huffy now, and he had a hard time not grinning for real at the snotty little look she gave him.

"Huh." She plopped down on the bed and began tapping on the screen. "Well, it just so happens that today it's so literal you'll laugh." She held up the iPad and he saw a view of the sitting room from what looked to be the top of the print over the couch. She tapped the screen and it changed to a view of a service elevator. She tapped the screen again and it changed to an alley where a couple of short men in hound-sooth pants and stained aprons stood smoking next to a dumpster. He sat on the bed next to her as the three images condensed to fit on the screen together.

He sat, leaned over her shoulder and caught another whiff of the orange scent. "It looks to me like you're either a voyeur with the most boring fantasies possible, or –

"I do mission oversight. Today, as I said, it's pretty literal, but most of the time there are other aspects to it: logistics, intel, communications."

The two guys by the dumpster threw their butts into an old coffee can and walked off the screen. "Ok. So I get the 'Watch' part. Where'd 'Tower' come from? And why are we watching a dumpster?"

"It's the kitchen entrance to the hotel. Martha and, if everything goes to plan, Lionel will both be using it."

"Chloe..." he prompted. She jumped a little at her name and he repressed another grin. She sighed.

"That's literal too. We run ops out of a penthouse."

"In a tower."

"Yes."

A memory of her, gagged and tossing down a bow, hit him. "It's the old Teague Tower, isn't it?"

"Teague Tower?"

"The building from last time."

"The Teagues used to own that place?"

"They did where I come from. Do you know them?"

"One of them," she said, looking troubled.

"Are there any Teagues on your team?" he asked carefully.

"No! As far as I know they're all dead."

"Oh." He wasn't sure how to feel about that. Jason had been a friend of his, once. Of course, Jason may not have even existed in her world. Which brought up the question of who did. He leaned back on an elbow so he could watch her without staring

"So, who's on your team? Is Dinah?"

"Lots of people are on the team," she said, her guard-walls coming suddenly up again. Not for long, he thought.

"So, 'yes'," he said.

"I didn't say that – "

"You didn't say she wasn't. How 'bout Vic and Andrea? They on the team?"

"Yes," she said in the kind of drawn-out sigh reserved for those with whom one is trying to be especially patient, like small children and the woman at the deli who wants samples of all the salads. He grinned anyway.

"Who else?"

"A bunch of people you don't know. Is this really relevant?" she asked, frowning at him but without the heat from before.

He shrugged. There was one person in particular he was curious about. He'd been hoping she'd say it and knowing she wouldn't, and now his curiosity was getting the better of his cool. "Is your world's Oliver on your team?"

She bit her lip. That looked like uncertainty, he thought. "I don't think it's a good idea to talk about that," she said.

Which was another "yes" but unstated for a different reason. "Why not?"

She looked back down at her screen. "Because it's just not. Because you're you and he's him, just like your world is one thing and mine is another."

"You just told me where your team headquarters were and the identities of three of your teammates."

She became absorbed in the screen she held, tapping at it until she'd pulled up another camera view, this one over-looking a sidewalk hot-dog stand. He sat up when the customer at the stand turned to walk away and he saw that it was Lois. He walked her stride off the screen, hot-dog in one hand, cellphone in the other, down the sidewalk and out of view. It was another minute before he spoke.

"Do you know Lois?"

She watched the hot-dog vendor help another customer. "She's my cousin," she said. "In my world she just asked me to be her maid of honor. In your world I died when she was four." The customer on screen liked a lot of peppers on his dog, Oliver noticed. "I know it's a lot to ask, but I would really appreciate it if you didn't tell her about me. At least, not my name. Call me 'Gazoo' if you have to. I can't ... be involved with people over there and I don't want her to be hurt by that."

"Sure," he said dully. "No problem."

Which wasn't entirely a lie. It had not occurred to him until just now that this was something to be shared with Lois. He did not know what he would tell her if he did. Fortunately, the lock on the sitting room door clicked and he was up and in the other room before it occurred to him that she had, at last, successfully changed the topic of conversation.


	5. Chapter 5

There was no time though to dwell on her craftiness, or on anything else. The door to the hall-way was swinging open and Chloe was following him from the bedroom.

"Stay back," he told her and felt his stomach lurch as she darted ahead of him anyway. The door opened fully and she skidded to a stop in front of it as a man in a suit pretty much identical to his stepped in. He reached for the gun in his holster at the same time the man in the entry-way lifted his hand to his side-arm and Chloe's eager, overly-chipper voice called out: "Senator!"

"It's alright," said a quiet female voice behind the man in the door-way.

"The bedroom's clean," said Chloe, "and we're nearly finished in here."

"That's fine," said the senator, stepping out from behind the man whose hand was still positioned beneath his jacket. "Take all the time you need. You don't mind if I get a little work done in the meantime, do you?" She walked to the seating group and set a lap-top bag on the coffee table.

"Senator," said the man opposite Oliver.

Mrs. Kent turned to him. "It's fine Carter. When our guest arrives would you please show him up."

Carter, obviously displeased with this development, gave Oliver a hard look and left. Oliver almost wished he stayed. A man with a gun he could handle. A quizzical-faced Martha Kent he could also handle, but it required keeping his clenching stomach from showing on his face. He must have succeeded, he thought, because she gave him a small smile and offered him her hand. "I don't believe we've met. I'm Martha Kent," she said. No, she hadn't met him, but had she met his counter-part? Was she having the same reaction to him as he was to her, shocked not by the similarities she saw but by the differences? _She_ had the same eyes and cheekbones and voice, the same height and coloring and posture. It was her expression that transformed her into another woman. For one thing, she was smiling at him. For another, she was relaxed. Her mouth looked softer and more sensitive; her eyes, while focused, lacked the bitterness he remembered.

"Oliver Queen," he answered and took it. "You're not what I was expecting."

Her only acknowledgement of that somewhat dubious compliment was another quizzical look. "I take it you came with Chloe."

"I thought he might come in handy," Chloe answered.

"I suppose if worse comes to worse Mr. Queen here can tackle him. But will you be able to get back with three of you?"

"I don't see why not. Give credit where it's due, Krypto-tech is always up to the job."

"So what happens if worse doesn't come to worse?" he asked. "Not that I would mind throwing down with Lionel, but it sounds as if that's not Plan A."

Mrs. Kent laughed. "It's not really a plan," she said. "It's more like a ruse. I invite him up here for a quiet drink..."

"And then she slips him a roofie," Chloe finished. "Speaking of which, do you want something _h'ors d'oeurves_-y to go with the drinks?"

"That's a good idea. Oh, do they still have those little blini?"

"I can find out. What did you bring?"

The older woman pulled out a bottle of Auchentoshan. "It's discontinued and considered rare."

"Yeah, he'll enjoy tearing that apart," Chloe said and picked up the phone. While she talked to the kitchen Oliver overcame his moment of shock and leaned toward Mrs. Kent.

"Is that seriously the plan? You're going to spike his drink? You realize he'll probably be able to taste it?"

"Oh, probably, but Chloe's right. That'll just give him an excuse to offer to send me a better bottle."

He hesitated a minute. Just as she wasn't the Martha Kent he knew, the man she'd invited to this hotel room was not the Lionel she knew. If the Lionel he knew had ever sent anyone a bottle it was probably poisoned. "Well, I'll be close if you need me."

She lifted her hand and gave his a gentle squeeze. Her hand was cool and her palm was harder than he would have expected. "I appreciate your willingness to help. I know our problems aren't really your concern."

"It's my problem too. I'm the prime suspect for Lionel's alleged murder back home. Bringing him back alive means I don't get a government-induced curare cocktail."

"Then I'm glad we can help each other." She gave his hand another, almost unconscious squeeze before giving him an abashed little look. "I'm sorry. You're just so much like... Oliver was one of my first donors, but he's only a few years older than my son, and I've always felt a little responsible for him."

He nodded. After he swallowed and cleared the tightness from his throat he managed to smile. "I'm sure he doesn't appreciate that half as much as he should." He hoped her son, knowing what he did, managed to appreciate it as much as he should.

"Oh, he tolerates it, but I think that's mostly because I make Chloe do all the dirty work."

"Real – " he began, but as if saying her name conjured her, Chloe appeared on the sofa next to Martha. "They're not doing the blinis anymore," she said. "They're doing fingerlings with caviar instead. I got some of those and some little omelets with crab meat in case he's anti-carb. I ordered some champagne, too. They're sending that up right away."

"I don't think the potatoes will be a problem. Lionel always considered food fads to be beneath him."

"Which is why he ordered locally grown organic produce to the mansion all those years."

"I think that was more Lex's idea," Martha said as a knock sounded at the door. "That was fast."

A little too fast, Oliver thought, and stood.

"I got it," said Chloe.

"But I'm the muscle," he answered. "That's why I'm here, right?"

"Later, yes, but for now – "

He decided to head off the argument before it began by walking toward the door.

"Oliver," Martha said.

He turned back toward her as whoever stood on the other side of the door knocked again.

"I think Chloe's worried you might be recognized," she continued. "It was a bit of a risk coming out here before."

"Right. And putting Chloe – " He stopped, realizing in time he would have sounded pretty damn ungrateful. "I guess I'm not doing such a great job tolerating, am I?"

She smiled, shook her head, and shooed him into the bedroom.


	6. Chapter 6

**To redqueen11**: Here's another Chlollie moment.

He stood by the cracked door the entire wait, listening as Chloe took the champagne from the server and later the food. In between she and Martha chatted in low voices, a conversation he was clearly not meant to overhear but which he did his damnedest to. Disappointingly, none of it was about him, and little of it made much sense. Martha was trying to get Chloe to do something – _"We need a voice – _" and Chloe was refusing – "_If you want that you should talk to Lois._" His ears perked at that, but he couldn't hear anything else until Martha said "_ – then Clark will never -_" "_He'll do it._" Chloe answered. "_He will. We just have to –_ "

There was another knock at the sitting room door and he scrambled back to the bed as he heard Chloe walk to the bedroom.

"Is he – " he began, but she was at the bed, finger to his lips, almost before he could blink. He sat very still as she leaned down and whispered "_We're not here._" Her breath was hot against his earlobe and her hand was warm against his mouth. The smell of her was muskier than before, spicier, richer; it was always stronger when she was near him and he caught her wrist reflexively as she pulled away. He was tired of that. She had been so close he'd heard her inhale, and now she was frowning down at him, questioning.

He tightened his grip. If now was not the time for questions then she didn't get to ask any either; she could dangle, as he did, taunted by her own whys and what-ifs and what-could-never-bes. Her frown deepened but he refused to let go. He didn't know if he needed a punching bag or electroshock or a stiff drink; he'd gone down the rabbit hole and now it felt as if it was his world where everything was backwards and nothing made sense. Or maybe it was just that this world had everything he hadn't known he'd wanted –

She was leaning forward again, not toward him, but to the side, her free hand scrabbling blindly over the blanket. Her wary eyes fixed on his she reached further, arching as she stretched. He could feel her weight shift to compensate for the change in her center of gravity. It would be easy for her to lose her balance, he thought; one nudge and he would finally be able to pin her down. Just as, in his mind's eye, he had her sprawled out beneath him, her actual body tensed like a spring and bounced upright again, brandishing her iPad in triumph. For a second he glared at it, then up at her. She smiled, having gotten what she wanted.

He let go of her wrist.

Giving him another little frown, this one concerned, she sat next to him and pulled up the view of the room next door. In it he could see Lionel had entered, the champagne had been poured, and Martha had taken the spot next to him on the couch. It was what he should have expected, he supposed, but it was revolting just the same; his _father_ looked so relaxed and confident and sardonic it was all he could do not to march through the door and slam the man's face into the wall. It probably accomplish the same thing the drink was meant to do, while causing only slightly more ruckus.

And would anyone really care if it did, once they knew who was taking the beating? He'd guess there were a very limited number of people in this world who not cheer seeing Lionel Luthor get his ass kicked. He doubted even those who wouldn't would miss him once he was gone. No one in his world truly had, with the possible sole, ironic exception of himself. Considering that it would be almost a sacrificial act to make sure Lionel never returned anywhere. Surely both worlds would be safer, happier, better places without him in them, and what could he, Oliver, lose that hadn't already been taken from him by that bastard? His freedom? Better to lose it for actually killing Lionel than being framed for killing him.

On-screen, Martha pulled out the Auchentoshan and offered it to the bastard, who seemed condescendingly eager to open it. He gripped the bedspread beneath him, anchoring himself with it while Lionel offered his hostess a glass and she refused. Then a sticky-note opened suddenly at the bottom of the screen and Chloe scrawled, _**"Don't think too hard or you'll get grossed out. But it'll work. Luthor ego**_!" He looked at her skeptically. She looked back archly. On the pad she deleted her first note and wrote, "_**Trust me. I'm a morally ambiguous genius**_." Against his will, he chuckled and looked back at the feed. Lionel had put his tumbler down but not, Oliver noticed, before he'd knocked back a good half of what he'd poured. Maybe it would work. Her last plan had been pretty insane and that had come together – or should he say her last two plans? His only experience with meta-humans had been with Ultraman and the occasional Smallville-spawned meteor mutant; it had never occurred to him there might be some who were stable enough and driven enough to want to take up his fight. But she had known they were out there, just as she'd known how to break into his armory and how to de-power Clark. And she always had a back-up. Which in this case, he remembered, was him.

Taking a breath, he pulled the stylus from her fingers and wrote "**_I do_**."


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note: **

General - This is the last chapter for this story, and I'm a little hesitant about the ending. I'm trying to marry this as well as I can to current canon, although now _Beacon_'s aired I realize I'm now in an AU of an AU. I'm sketching out a sequel, but I want to see what happens in the next couple of eps.

To redqueen11 - yes, I think Oliver's begun to realize that. He's still Oliver, though, and Chloe's still Chloe, so they have their work cut out for them.

**And now, our story:**

[

[

She turned a little pink reading his note, but did not reach for the stylus to write anything herself. Instead she gave the door in front of them a glassy stare for a few seconds, then bent her head and nodded a thank-you. The awkwardness of the gesture made her look younger, like a kid burdened with public and unexpected attention. She was focused entirely now on the scene on screen, her head still bent. Avoiding him again, amateurishly this time, and he wondered if it was because she couldn't talk away what she preferred to keep hidden. Not facts in this case, but herself. It was like an instinct with her, he saw. Like an animal hiding weakness to avoid attack, she hid information so she could hide herself with it.

He squelched the urge to lift his hand and push back the short fall of hair on her cheek, pull back her notice to him. Before, when he had chased her into the dressing room, it was because she had planted herself in the food court on purpose, like a grouse-cock diverting a predator from the nest. Now however she was more like the hen, silent and still and alone and she would never draw attention to herself as long as she thought he was watching.

He pulled his pupils out of the corners of his sockets, where they had been studying the curve of her neck and the point of her chin and moved them to the iPad. Through the feed he saw the suave president of LuthorCorp, who only allowed his self-control to lapse when he chose to let it lapse, had become bleary-eyed and gracelessly handsy. Standing, he felt his jacket pulled across his shoulders as Chloe grabbed at it from behind. He glared down at her, hard enough to provoke an actual whisper: "_Martha's got it._"

"_I don't think Lionel knows that_," he whispered back.

In response, she raised the iPad and flipped it up toward him. Onscreen Martha was now standing and Lionel was attempting to join her. Attempting being the operative word: on his first try he lost his balance before fully vertical and ended up splayed out over the couch. On his second he managed to stand, carefully, and wagged his finger at Martha. Breath held Oliver waited for him to lunge. Instead, by a miracle, Lionel Luthor did exactly as was desired of him and collapsed between the couch and the coffee table, his head bouncing off the cushions and his left wrist off the table corner.

His first thought as he gawked at the screen was that video would go viral if it was ever released to the public. His second was that Chloe had let go of his jacket. Freed, he flung open the bedroom door to find a harassed-looking Martha blinking at him from the other side of the doorway.

"Well, that's done," she sighed.

"Are you alright?"

Her lips rounded into a small "o" before relaxing into her slow smile. "I'm fine. It was actually quite entertaining. I haven't heard some of those jokes he told in thirty years."

A small hand alighted on his shoulder and he looked down to see Chloe's big grin, the one he couldn't help himself from returning in the dressing room. "This," she said, patting him, "is the part where we could really use your help."

!#$%^&*()_+!#$%^&*()_+!#$%^&*()_+

The light faded and Oliver opened his eyes. They were in a familiar-looking alley beside an overflowing dumpster and an equally overflowing coffee can of cigarette butts. It appeared that garbage collection schedules were one of the many differences between his world and hers.

"So the plan is to throw him away?" he asked. "I'm on board with that."

"No," she said, shaking her head against the smile that threatened to pop out. "The plan is to prop him up down there." She pointed to the corner where the alley met the street. "Then you go back to your office and I call 911 and pretend I saw him while passing by."

He shrugged, or would have if most of Lionel's weight hadn't been bearing down on his left shoulder.

"You sure? A night of the dumpster lifestyle might be a learning moment for him."

"I'm pretty sure Lionel knows exactly how the other half lives. He just doesn't give a crap."

"Yeah, no arguments there." He squatted, making sure the fortunately-but-sadly not-dead weight of the man was secure, and hobbled down the alley. "Is it clear?"

"It should be. There's 'Road Blocked' signs at both corners."

Wondering who had taken care of that, he swung his burden down. "How's this?"

"Can you maybe pull out his feet? It's supposed to look like I saw him from the sidewalk."

"So you really did drag me out of the universe and back just so I could schlepp this guy around, didn't you?"

"That's so not true. Like Martha said, we needed someone around who could knock him out in case the roofie didn't."

Squatting back down, he hoisted Lionel back up on to his shoulder. "Somewhere out there there's gotta be a woman who'll appreciate me for my mind."

"You could try Dinah," she suggested.

"Dinah told me I should get tested for learning disorders," he grunted as he stood. With another grunt, he went into another half-squat and used the momentum from straightening to propel the unconscious billionaire a little further down the alley. He landed with what Oliver thought was a satisfying thump, but behind him Chloe squeaked.

"You want it to look like he got dumped, right?"

"Yeah..."

"You think it matters to your mythical bad guys whether he hit his head on the way down?"

"No, but we need him to stay not dead and wake up in a few hours."

"You mean _I_ need him to stay not-dead and wake up in a few hours, and since I'm the one who's future depends on this, I'm gonna insist on a little authenticity." Because seriously, he owed the guy a head-smack or three. As did his mother, and Patricia, and that even that magnificent little prick Lex, who, God help him, had at the least deserved not to be murdered by the monster for whom his father had tossed him aside.

"Just, be careful."

"Don't worry. I decided earlier today I wasn't going to continue the proud family tradition of having everyone in my gene pool whacked. Mostly because my old man here already took care of that for me."

She was giving him a funny look, he saw, as if she didn't know whether to be afraid or solicitous. It was gone as soon as she realized he was watching, replaced by determination. "Don't call him that," she said. "He's not your family, and you're giving him way more importance in your life than he deserves, saying that."

"Yeah? What would you know about it?" It was a stupid, stupid thing to say, he knew that, but it was off his tongue and in her wince even before he even realized he'd said it. He saw the shudders in her eyes come down and her face go blank in the second it would have taken him to open his mouth if he could have. His throat had welded itself shut, though, and all he could do was kick himself for a goddamn idiot.

"I need to make the call," she said after a moment. "You shouldn't be around when they arrive."

He nodded. Jesus. It wasn't as if Lionel hadn't ruined every life he'd ever touched. Even when he was out cold he managed to kill everything good around him.

"Please... " He jerked his head up just as she paused. "Please be careful. I doubt he'll try to target you legally – "

He laughed. "No, I'm not worried about that. I'll just need to make sure someone else starts Lois' car for the rest of her life."

She gave him that in-between look again, half scared and half pitying. Her phone was in hand but she didn't move to dial it. "Please don't do anything impulsive," she said.

He looked up, stared hard at the slanting light fighting to make it through the cloud cover. It was over. He knew that in his gut. He should say he was sorry. He should say thank you. He should walk over to her and –

No. He wouldn't do anything impulsive. She was gone and he should leave too. He stuck his hands in his pockets, tilted his forehead in her general direction and turned on his heel. "No sweat. See you around." He walked out of the alley. It was getting late, and cold. He headed for the corner. If he was where he thought he was there'd be a cab stand a few blocks over. He could catch one and be at the Ace of Clubs by the time she was gone.


End file.
